Author 



^^^o/- 




^ ** ^ 



Title 




Imprint. 



16-— 47372-2 OPO 



IThe following is a letter from the Poet, William Cullen Bryant, Esq., 
who kindly favored me with a criticism on my play.] 



Roslyn, Long Island, June 23, 1877. 

To Miss Gahrielle de Nottbeek. 

Dear Madam .- 

In sending me your drama, you have made 
this great mistake, that you proceed upon the supposition 
that I am a critic, whereas I am only an author. But 
as you have asked my opinion of your drama, and as it 
might seem uncivil not to answer, I will say in what 
manner it has impressed me. Of th'^ character of your 
drama I can say nothing. I know nothing of what is 
called stage effect, and the qualities that make a play 
proper for acting. But it strikes me that your drama 
is full of action, which is an important characteristic. 
You have also made a very ingenious use of the passages 
quoted from Shakespeare, fitting them into the dialogue 
with great skill, and making them answer your purpose 
as well as if you had written them expressly for your 
work. Then you have connected them together with 
sentences which are not unlike them in manner, which of 
itself is a feat of dexterity. Perhaps it would have been 
well if you had put them all into the form of blank 
verse, but that is not very material. 

I am, Madam, 

Respectfully yours, 

W. C. BRYANT. 



I 



^ ' • <- >— (x^ 



HEROINES OF FRANCE: 

IN X'WO P-A.RTS AND SEVEN A.CTS. 

BY 

MISS GABRIELLE DE NOTTBECK. 



Arranged with Quoted Parts from Shakespeare's 
Plays and Original Parts by the Writer. 



[IMPEOYED.] 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, 

By Gabrielle de Nottbeck, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 






f 



PREFACE 



A PREFACE is neerled here to allow the author to make an 
apology for the brevity of the tragedy. Heroines of France. 
Brevity, in most forms of expression, is commendable, but is 
not to be applauded in a play. The only excuse I can offer, 
and which, I think, will be found a reasonable one, is that the 
subject I have chosen will not admit a lengthy programme. The 
heroines were both women of obscure lives. Not until the 
thrilling tragedies attached to their histories, like grand meteors, 
loomed over their humble destinies, ha® there been any thing 
possible to relate of them in a drama. In order, therefore, to 
give a true picture of their lives to the public, the writer can 
only grasp at the soul-fires that burned in their heroic hearts 
such as they were kindled at the moment when the great events 
associated with them were in the supreme height of their glory. 
This I have endeavored to portray — and only this. Nothing but 
the tragedies, faithfully recorded, as I found them traced on the 
tablet of history, where they lie mirrored among the troubles, 
the triumphs, and the griefs that have been buried in the deep 
and ever-rolling surges of Time. In order to make up for the 
deficiency of the length of the play, before the play opens the 
" Balcony Scene " from Romeo ajsb Juliet might be introduced, 
or any other favorite selection. 



PART I. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

Makat, A French Political Fanatic. 

Elise, Housekeeper of Marat. 

Julie, A Servant in Marat's House. 

Jaqtjes, Valet of Marat. 

Lenard A Robber. 

" Gratmalkin," .... a Witch. 

" Caius," A Doctor. 

Simon Chenier, .... A Fruit-Seller. 

Armand Cordat, . . . Father of Charlotte. 

Henri Cordat Brother of Charlotte. 

Adolphb, Lover of Charlotte. 

CHARLOTTE CORD AY, . . A Normandy Peasant Girl. 
Villagers, Soldiers, Jailers, Priest, Executioner, etc. 



COSTUMES. 
The Normandy Peasant Dress. 



NOTE. 

The play is a true historic tradition, with the exception of 
a few changes, made to render it a wholesome representation, 
and is the property of the writer. 



Heroines OF France. 



PART I. 

Charlotte Coeday. 

INDUCTION. 

(in one scene, prior to act I.) "GOING TO THE FAIR." 

Scene. A French farm. Farm-liouse and barns. Young men 
and young women dressed up in " holiday dress," grouped under 
a tree outside the farm-house. Some of the men playing on 
violins and some of the women on banjos. Two pair of beauti- 
ful horses, with manes and tails braided with gay ribbons, are 
led out of the farm to go to the fair. After which a calf is led 
from the barn to the fair. Then a young couple step out of the 
farm-house, going to the fair. Then an old couple who are per- 
fect caricatures. The group under the tree cheer these sights 
and throw flowers to those who pass whom they admire, and eggs, 
from a basket near them, to those they disdain to honor. 



HEROINES OF FRANCE. 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. — An open wood. — Enter tioo Villagers. 

\st Villager. Look up ! Mark yonder dying sun; how 
like a corpse it looks, whose agony was fierce, whose 
cries were spent for naught, whose blood, like briny 
waves, from a deep sea hath crawled. So sinks it into 
rest. 

2c? Villager. Not a' fair omen. Yet I trow a bright 
sun would be mockery ; therefore as well to let it frown 
and sjjeak in honesty, than to see smiles upon the ills to 
come. — "Men judge by the complexion of the sky the 
state and inclination of the day." So, by the frowning 
of the night, we know what smiles to-morrow he shall 
wear. 

\st Villager. Well, if thou'rt sad, "let's talk of 
graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; make dust our paper, 
and with rainy eyes, write sorrow on the bosom of the 
earth." 

2d Villager. Nay, rather with thy wit turn to a livelier 
song. But look who comes. 

Enter a Third Villager. 

What! tarrying here? Look there! See how the 
village burns ; let's haste, for in it are our lives. 

[^Exeunt. 



6 

Scene 2. — A village partly burned. Soldiers and vil- 
lagers. 

Enter a Villager [rushing among them], who is 
Adolphe. Oar goodly cause fights on our side. " The 
prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, like high-reared 
bulwarks, stand before our faces." With such array, 
let's down upon our foes. 

[The villagers make a rush totoard the soldiers; they 
cry, Ay ! ay ! down upon them ! down upon them ! 
They fight ; several of the villagers are slain, Hexri 
CoRDAY among them ; a few soldiers also slain / Ar- 
MAND CoRDAY is made a prisoner among several 
other villagers ; others escape. The leader of the hand 
of soldiers repeats an order of Marat. 

I command, by order of Marat, that all prisoners be 
now conducted and chained in separate cells, there to 
await their sentences ; advance ! 

[Soldiers beat drums and the prisoners are led captive. 
Curtain falls and rises upon the same scene. Villagers 
come to claim their dead ; when the curtain rises, they 
are kneeling atid standing by them. Charlotte is 
kneeling by the body of her brother, and is the last 
to remain. Tableau scene. The first grief of CnA.^- 
lotte that leads to her heroic revenge. 

Charlotte. O noble brow ! O head made for a 
crown ! Alas ! that none, save one of dust, rests on 
thee, and yet a crown of dust, fashioned with blood, — 
witli blood that died to save that dust, — is honor's crown, 
a far more kingly one, of rarer cast than any carved one 
with jewels o'er refined gold. [She suddenly looks up, 
sees how late it is.] The dew is falling and the night 
draws near, and yet not one life with me. Stop ! did I 



say none ? Ah ! yes, alas ! too true ; the dead are 
nothing save in outward view. They, like fine chiselled 
marble, bear for ay^ those black or golden deeds re- 
corded, that can never die ! [She sinks on her brother's 
forn%?\ My brother ! O my brother ! 

CURTAIN FALLS. 



ACT II. 



Scene 1. — The interior of a cottage. — Charlotte's home. 
— The body of Henri laid on a bier. — Charlotte v}eep- 
ing by it. 

Adolphe. [Advancing toward her.] Come, dearest love, 
weep not ; thy tears must cease, or thou, too, Charlotte, 
shall be made so weak, like a frail lily by his side thou'lt 
pine. That Avell beloved would never have it so. Why 
vex the dead ? Come, dearest, do not weep. 

Charlotte. [Looking up.] Fie ! fie for shame ! Wliat 
would'st thou have me do ? If thou dost love me, save 
thy land ; take up thy sword. 

Adolph. My sword ? Where would you send it ? It 
is the tower to guard you, my life ; yea, all tlie manly 
vigor that I have, are bulwarks — bulwarks, frail ones to 
confront such foes ; yet let them dare but look, and 
these weak arms, like eagle's talons, or like tiger's teeth, 
shall stick into their marrow and there stay, ere one 
small finger or a tiny bone relent one atom from its 
prey. 

Charlotte. [Poiyiting to her brother's body.] Then, by 
the cold, cold damp upon that brow, by those mute lips, 
no more to utter words, by the high honor that pre- 
serves thy steps, by the fond love you bear me, by my 



s 

love, thou, as a man, go fight them with thy sword ; 
I, as a woman, shall do all that woman can afford ! 
[She snatches a dagger from her belt, and holds it in 

the air y' Adolphe makes a rash to seize it from her / 

she icrenches aioay from him. 

Scene 2. — A prison-cell. — Arm and Corbay in chains. 

Armand. So in the winter of my ripened age, like a 
stout icicle that bit the air — like a proud lion of its sil- 
ver mane, have hunters, vile blood-drinkers chained me 
here. They fain would smile to see how quick good ice 
can thaw; how soon a lion's nature — its bold fire — can 
die ; they fain would mock my homely gown, white hair ; 
so for their mockery have twined their chains. Foul 
fiends ! they knew that honest rags, however worn, 
can ne'er condemn, but that round coils, though warm 
from arms of kings, make honor blush, draw tears from 
strongest men. 

Miter a Jailer^ hearing some food for Armand. 

Jailer. " O dear discretion, how his words are 
suited! The fool hath planted in his raem'ry an army 
of good words; and I do know a many fools" that 
stand in worse condition, garnished like him, as steady 
in their good opinion. [The jaihr pats the howl on a 
low hench^ Come, sip thy broth, 'tis good as wine. 
\Laiuihs\. Ha, ha, ha, ha! By Jupiter ! he scorns me 
for a cook. 

Armand. Good man. "For my own part, I could be 
well content." But grief, like a crooked bone, is 
wedged, it chokes me ; therefore, prithee, let me feed 
on rest. 

The Jailer p>ushes Armand aside. 

Jailer. Away, ungrateful dog, " away, you starvelings 
you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue," you 



[TTie Jailer goes out, and slams the door of the prison. 
— Armaxd stretches himself on a small straw-covered 
cot near the stand, with boiol. 

Enter Adolphe. 

Adolphe. " Why, how now, no greater heart in thee ? 
Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. 
Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers." Thou 
canst not live and yet resist from food. " For my sake 
be comfortable ; hold death awhile at the arm's end ; I 
will here be with thee presently ; and if I bring thee 
not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die ; but, 
if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my 
labor. Well said ! thou look'st cheei-ly ; and I'll be 
with thee quickly, and thou shalt not die for lack of a 
dinner. Cheerly, good father." [Exit. 

Enter Charlotte. 

Armand. Charlotte, my daughter, wherefore here? 
My flower, the flower blooming near ray trunk — oh ! 
should she die — should her sweet beauty spoil by those 
vile hands — what would her father do ? Why, go stark 
mad. But wherefore healthy? See I not the truth? 
My child, yet not my child. She can but come to me, 
and that not oft; I can but see her, cannot keep. 
Charlotte, no more mine. Have I no child? My heart 
stands still, my sight grows dark. Farewell, my child, 
farewell, farewell! [Faints. 

Charlotte. O father, dear, dear father, do not die ; 
or, if thou must, wait till I come ; wait but one hour — 
or, if thou canst, one day. See what thy child, thy 
tender girl, can do. [She bends nearer to him."] List, 
father; thou knowest ray friend Elise? [He re- 
vives a little.^ I'll go to her this night — I'll coax her 
with a favor very light. Elise, reraember what thou 



10 

said'st. She'll answer, "What, my child?" Thou pro- 
mised a wish, that favor when I choose; wilt grant it? 
She, with her kindly heart, will say, " Oh, yes." Then 
I will say, Elise, just let me go, and in my boldness, so 
to make a boast, let me go singly, to thy master's room. 
I'll only ope the door, and if he be asleep, creep in, go 
round as lightly as a mouse, just make one turn for 
pride, and then [s/ie hesitates to finish the pla7i.^ 

Armand. [ Without noticing her hesitation^ conti7iues.'\ 
Ay, that sounds cunning, but I see no plan. Well, 
child, what then? 

Charlotte. [Hesitates, thenfinalli/ finds courageto reply. ^ 
Before my shadow shall have crossed that room, by all 
the saints, by these strong walls that bind thee, he shall 
die ! 

Armand. [Swprised.^ My child ! — nay, daughter, 
I'll not have thee thus imperilled in thy cause. What 
if another by him ? — if within his hand a sword ? — 
What if ' 

Charlotte. Nay, father, do not fear ; all shall go well, 
and very well. My plan, spun finer than a spider's web, 
to be undone cannot bo without spider's bite. The 
greatest men and foulest villains shrink from toads, from 
serpents, lizards, and all creeping things. I'm small and 
shall be one. So, good-night, father ; angels guard thee 
till I come. [They embrace. He, wild in divers thoughts^ 
lets her go. He suddenly comes to and finds her gone — 
works at the door of cell with all his might to opefi it. 

Armand. Charlotte, Charlotte, come back ; my girl, 
come back! What have I done — what have I done? 
Come back — come back ! It will not ope. [Zeaves the 
door.] Oh! had I Samson's strength. These feeble 
hands can only fold in prayer. [luitels.] Good angels, 
come ; by this hour she is there. [Poi/ds to heavtn.] Tarry 
not, but set me loose within yon land so fair. [I^alls dead.] 



11 

Enter Adolphe, bringing a small basket of food for 
Armand. 

Adolphe. O saints ! have mercy ; another gone ! 
poor, poor Charlotte ! 'twill kill her. How can I hide 
this blast, this cruel, cutting grief ? Her dear, dear 
father! Now as I think, where has she gone? O 
cruel fate! would'st have the blood of all? Thou 
di'eadful minister, I pray thee, take not all — oh ! spare 
my Charlotte ! 

Enter a Jailer. 

Jailer. 'Tis time I locked thee out ; but for the sake 
of tliy good face, will wait ; so tarry on. ^Sees the body 
of Armand.] What's this? Did'st kill him, man ? 

Adolphe. Kill him? Nay, I'd sooner spill each drop 
of blood that courses in me, than touch him, even with 
an angry look. 

Jailer. Is he thy father ? 

Adolphe. All but that. He would have been my 
father, had not fortune frowned. But where's my Char- 
lotte? — was she not here? 

Jailer. My service is at later hours. She may have 
been. 

Adolphe. When saw you her the last ? 

Jailer. 'Twas yesternight, or, rather, yesterday just 
at the setting of the sun. 

Adolphe. Did she look calm ? 

\Jailer hesitates to reply. 

Adolphe. Speak, speak, I pray you ! 

Jailer. Would'st have me tell thee? 

Adolphe. Ay, go on. 

Jailer. She looked much as a troubled sea, that rocks 
long hours before the stoi-m has come. Her breast did 
heave thus, and her eyes, methinks, if mine are right, 
were wet. 



12 



Adolphe. \In despair^ Enough, enough ! The 
storm lias come. I hear the thunder, see the flashes fly. 
O curses, curses ! Where am I — where am I ? \Half 
wild, he rushes out of the prison.^ 



CuRrAIN FALLS. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — An open wood. 

Adolphe. "He jests at scars that never felt a wound." 
But he would weep, who'd doctor such a sore. \Puts 
his hand to his heart.] O love ! thy darts cut far more 
deeply in, yea, far more deep, than cruelty can strike. 
The lover's blindfold eye sees but one scale, and leaves 
the heavier balance out of sight. And yet a man who 
never loves at all is like a pinnacle upon a lonely rock 
he liears the music of the lovely waves, but never springs 
to court them in the caves. For monsters such as he, 
the whales were raised. By Jupiter! when they do 
spring, they're gulped and never rise. I need no learned 
doctor's, medicines or pills. Had I but news of Charlotte, 
all were well. Who'd taste of love, must also drink 
the gall of martyrdom. 

Enter Lexard, a robber, disguised as a peddler, selling 
wares. 

Adolphe. Didst see a pretty maiden on the way? A 
girl with flaxen hair and hazel eyes ? 

Lenard. Ay, she's but a hundred yards behind. 
[Adolphe runs to find her. 



13 

Enter a Villager. 

Lenard. Would'st liave a pretty broom to plaster thy 

good wife with, when it's worn ? Or, if thou'rt soft, 

here's a toy to please thy babe, Avhen graver cares annoy. 

Villager. \^Laughs.'\ Ha, ha, ha, ha ! old fox, I'll none 

of them, here's five sons for some snuff. 

Lenard. Here, take thy bunch. BIoav thy trumpet 
anywhere save by the bishop's door ; he knows me, and 
if annoyance comes, he'll track me as before. 

Villager. I'll pay thee with a cudgel for another warn- 
ing, be there fifty bishops, or pound thy pasted wares 
into a hash. Begone, thou prowling mongrel of a 
Jew. 
[He pushes Lite's art> forward ; Lts.'satj) turns roiaid upo7i 

him. 

Lenard. Thy first acquaintance with an Israelite ; come 
meet me here at twelve, just on the stroke to-niglit. 

Villager. [He starts, thinking it must be the robber 
Lenard, Says aside.'] I wonder if he's Lenard? [The 
Villager af?wawces ^0 Lenard.] I tremble; yet I am 
no coward. Thou art Lenard. 

Lenard. I am. 
Villager. May I pass on, or wilt thou hedge my way ? 

I^enard. [Laughs] Ha, ha ! Thou kuowest not Le- 
nard, if ihou think'st thou canst flee. 
[He tries to pxdl a pistol from his belt • the Villager 

springs upon him and holds him doicn. 
Villager. Oh ! I am even with thee, though thou art 
Lenard. Come, I'll be David, thou the Philistine. Thou 
hast been Philistine for miles around ; hast murdered 
men and women, children, fools in velvets, dames in 
silks. I now shall be thy slayer, yard for yard. Come, 
let me bind thee to tliis oak. [The Villager, \oith a rope 
Lenard had with his loares, fastens Lenard to an oak. 
Lenard struggles to get aioay from his grasp^ but can- 



u 

not. The Villager hinds his month %inth a handker- 
chief^ Now let me bind the yelling portal of thy 
throat, so that no tiiunpet call for thy defence. \He ties 
the handkerchief.] So, so. Now let the vultures pluck 
thine eyes, the hungry wolves come pay their tribute. 
[IVie Villager mocks Lenard.] How now, Goliath? 
Would'st have me beg thee leave to pass ? Ha, ha ! 'tis 
easy now to cut the shortest road for home. [Exit. 

Enter Adolphe in great distress, not having found 
Charlotte. 

Adolphe. " I wasted time, and now doth time waste 
me. For now hath Time made me his numbering clock. 
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar. 
Their watches on unto mine eyes ; the outward watch, 
whereto my finger like a dial's point, — is pointing still 
in cleansing them from tears." YTurns round, sees Le- 
nard.] What's this? Lenard, the devil, hanging on a 
tree ? [Adolphe approaches him.] " On thee, the 
troubler of the poor world's peace ! The worm of con- 
science still begnaw thy soul ! No sleep close up 
that deadly eye of thine, unless it be with some torment- 
ing dream, affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils. 
Thou elfish-marked, abortive, rooting hog ! Thou that was 
sealed in thy nativity, the slave of nature and the son 
of hell ! Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb ! 
Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins ! Thou rag of 
honor ! Thou detested ! [Adolphe sees some one pass- 
ing down a road, turns first, and stabs Lenard, then 
goes to on his way.] 

Adolphe. Here, take this rough farewell before I go. 
[Adolphe stahs Lenard, goes on his way. 



15 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — House of Marat in Paris, Elise sitting sew- 
ing in the courtyard. — Charlotte, coming from a 
distance, advances to her. 

Charlotte. When bees are busy they are always kind. 
" How doth the busy bee each shining hour, improves it 
at the utmost of its power." So working bees of course 
are good, because to work it is a virtue. So my Elise is, 
as she always was, good. \^Stoops and kisses Aer.] Are 
you going to sit here long, Elise ? 

Elise. Awhile ; come sit by me ; thy face looks warm 
— the breeze will cool thee. 

Charlotte. Gladly so, 'twill suit my purpose. But, 
dear Elise [she draios her work as if to take it from her — 
Elise gently resists her], stop old wives' work ; I'd 
chat with thee. 

Enter Jaques, valet of Marat, sits by Elise. 

Elise. Speak on, my child. 

Ch'irlotte. Art angry, Elise ? 

Elise. [Bends toward Charlotte, kisses her.] Nay, 
now, tliou'rt in a fooling mood. Why, child, I never 
loved thee better. [Jaquks leaves. Exit. 

Charlotte. Then wilt thou grant a favor ? 

Elise. Should it not weigh beyond my power, most 
gladly. 

Charlotte. May I go to the Blue-room — just ^^ look 
in ? I never saw it, save with thee one day I s^Died it 
through the keyhole. 

Elise. My master's ill. I dare not let thee near at 
such a time. 

Charlotte. Oh ! I'll go lightly as a bird, and if he be 
asleep 'twould surely do no harm just to creep in and hurry 



16 

out. Thou knowest, when thou sickened at my home, 
how I did pass thee wlien asleep aud never woke tliee. 

Elise. Well, I may grant, since good should be re- 
warded, tliou shalt be, for now I mind me what thou 
didst for me. Go, cliild, if it can please thee. 

Charlotte. Oh ! thanks, thanks, my true, my loving 
Elise. Tarry till I come, for I would fain be near thee 
when I've done. \Exit. 

Enter Julie, a servant, comimj from a basement, carry- 
ing a howl lolth partly peeled carrots. 

Julie. \She calls^ Elise, Elise. 

Elise. What is it, Julie ? 

Julie. I've stolen from my work a bit, to come and 
tell thee of a 'dream, a dreadful dream, mixed with a 
nic;htmarc, that I had last nisrht. 

Elise. Well, come, let's hear it. [Julie comes and 
sits hy Elise, ^?ee^s her carrots and tells her dream.~\ 

Julie. I dreamt I saw a field with scorpions, alligators, 
toads — all sorts of vermin, rats, and bats, and mice ; 
and as I nearer went, I saw thy friend, thy tender 
Charlotte, battling with a snake. Tiie snake, it 
hissed and curled, but she, brave girl, with her soft 
hands, did clasp its neck. It writhed aud tried to 
stins, but still she held. Then faint for want of air, it 
gasped and gasped, till with one leap it broke from her, 
and breathed its last. 

Elise. No ill will come. 'Twas only the ravings of 
thy heated mind. Thou knowest, Julie, how too big a 
drop of Uock can hurt thee. 

Julie. Nay, 'twas no Hock, Moselle, or other wine ; 
I've steadily drunk ale since Michaelmas. 

Ease. Oh, Julie, Julie ! 

Julie. Ask Father Claire ; I tell him my confessions. 

Elise. Well, I believe thee ; lake my hand for it. 

\_T/iey shake ha?ids. 



17 

Julie. Well met, well met. Dissevered friendship 
never can be healed, or if it is, 'lis like a mended pot — 
never all smooth, all blended as of yore, but with an 
ugly scam that never was before. 

[Elise turns rcimd, sees behind her a fiddler and a man 
with a trained hear. The hear can he a man dressed 
up in furs to look like that animai, having a htar^s- 
head musk, irith a strap muzzle. Elise shrieks. 
The man vnth hear. Don't be afraid, mi dame, the 
bear's as gentle as a lamb. Come, Bruno, be a gentle- 
man, show what a pretty bow thou canst salute with. 
[7%e heur hows.^ Now^ let us have a waltz. Come, 
Bruno, come. \They vxdtz, t/ie fiddler strikes up a tune.'\ 
Now run get thee a partner for a mir.uet, whilst I go 
muster others for the dance. \^The hear runs toioard 
Julie; Julie and Elise terrified, run shrieking toward 
the house, and make good their escape. The fiddltr aiid 
the man with hear in fits of laughter. The men call 
Bruno and leccve.] 

Enter Elise ; sJie comes back to get her xoork, then goes 
to the porch, looks through the bars of the gate, down 
the street. 

JElise. "That way the noise is. — Tyrant, show thy 
face." I ween 'tis not with all thou'd play such games. 
I would that thou wert slain, thou and thy beai-, that 
babes and timid women might have peace. 
[Elise stands looking doion the street. A French peasant 

uioman comes up to her and sags, through the gate : 

Peasant zoonian. Elise, "tu as este en Angleterre, et 
tu paries bien le language." 

Elise. " Un peu, madarae." 

Peasant icoman. " Je te pi-ie m'enseignez ; il faut que 
j'apprenne a parler. Comment appelez vous la main en 
Anglois ?" 



18 

Elise. "La main ? elle est appelee de hand." 

Peasant woman. " De hand. Et les doigts ?" 

EUse. "Les doigts? ma foy, je oiiblie les doigts; mals 
je me souviendray. Les doigts, je pense qu'ils sont 
appeles de fingres oiiy de fingres." 

Peasant woman. " La main, de liand ; les doigts, de 
fingres. Je pense que je suis boii escolier. J'ay gagne 
deux mots d'Anglois vistement comment ajjpelez vous 
les ongles ?" 

Elise. " Les ongles ? les appelons de nails." 

Peasant woman. " De nails. Escoutez, dites moy si 
je parle bien ; de hand, de fingres, de nails." 

Elise. " C'est bien dit, madame, il est fort bon An- 
glois." 

Peasant woman. " Dites moi I'Anglois pour le bras." 

Elise. "De arm, madame." 

Peasant woman. " Et le coude ?" 

Elise. "De elbow." 

Peasant woman. '' Escoutez moy," Elise, " escoutez. 
De hand, de fingre, de nails, de arm, de bilbow." 

Elise. " De elbow, madame." 

Peasant tcoman. " Oh je me'en oublie ; die elbow. 
Comment appelez vous le col?" 

Elise. " De neck, madame." 

Ptasant looman. " De nick : Et le menton ?" 

Elise. " De chin." 

Peasant iooman. " De sin. Le col, de nick, le menton, 
de sin." 

Elise. " Ouy Sauf A'otre honneur en vcrite vous ' parlez 
aussi droict que les natifs d'Angleterre." 

Peasant woman. " Je ne doute point d'apprendre en 
peu de temps." 

Elise. "N'avez vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ay 
enseignee ?" 

Peasant woman. " Non. De hand, de fingre, de mails." 



19 



Elise. " De nails, madame." 

Peasant xooman. " De nails, de arrae, de ilbow." 

Elise. "Sauf votre honiieur, de elbow." 

Peasant xooman. " Ainsi dis je. De elbow, de nick, 
et de sin." 

Elise. " Excellent, madame." 

Peasant looman. '* De hand, de fingre, de nails, de arm, 
de elbow, de nick, de sin. C'est assey pour una fois," 
raerci, madame, merci. Je me sauve pour disner. Au 
revoir. 

Elise. Au revoir, madame. 

[77ie Peasant loonian goes on her way\ Elise stands 
looking down the street. 

Curtain falls. 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — Charlotte in a passage-xoay leading to 
Marat's room. 

Charlotte. " It will have blood ; they say, blood will 
have blood ; stones have been known to move and trees 
to speak ; Augurs, and understood relations, have by 
magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth the 
secret'st man of blood." — Oh ! many au old man's sigh, 
and many a widow's, and many an orphan's water- 
standing eye. — Men for their sons', wives for their hus- 
bands', and orphans for their parents' timeless death, 
" have " rued the hour ever thou wast born. — The owl 
shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign ; the night-crow cried 
aboding luckless time ; dogs howled, and hideous tem- 
pests shook the trees. The raven rocked her on the 



20 

chimney's top and chattering pies in dismal discord 
sung. — Teetli had'st thou in thy head wlien tliou wast 
born, to signify thou cam'st to bite the world ! [She 
rusJies foru-ard a few steins as if Makat xoeve under her 
and she stubbhu/ himJ] Down, down to hell, and say 
I sent thee thither. — See how my sword weeps " for 
revenge !" " Oh, may such purj)le tears be always shed,'' 
floAA^n down until revenge is bought ! [She advances till 
she comes to Marat's door; looks rowtd to see if any one 
is near. Listens at his door.'\ How still — all dead — in 
silence — save myself; but oh! my heart it leaps, leaps as 
though struggling to desert me. Yet the heai*t is truer 
to one's self than aught. Than aught, e'en though a 
monster, a Avarrior 'gainst all other hearts it prove. 
Heart to heart is not all mixed with love ; such close 
communion dives as deep in hate as ever in the fields 
where tender passion dreams. Noav for the hour ! 
Mount up, my soul, mount up ! Thy courage dai-e not 
slack. JMount up, my fury! Need I Avhip it up? 
Hate boils itself, nor needs one coal to feed it. 

Scene H. — The Blue-room. Marat, torapped with a 
robe, on a couch — A very dim light burning^ 

Enter Charlotte. 

Charlotte. He sleeps ; 'tis Avell. First let the tiger lick 
its jaAV, and choose Avliat side 'tAvill turn upon its prey* 
then Avith a leap, spring on it ; and the Avork is o'er 1 
'Tis a foul victim for a goodly meal. A sickly prey dies 
quick; 'tis better so. My prize is only in thy death, 
not in thy carcase save to spit on it. [She advances, lays 
the dagger against his cheek ; he turns, disturbed in sleep, 
and says, as if in a dream:'] 

Marat. What cold was that that chilled me ? I am 
wrapped. Death never comes so near, then passes on. 



2J 

Sure, if it was deatli's hand, it only stroked ; that is a 
gentle way, then why not sleep ? Why should I not 
sleep as before ? Enough of trouble Avhen it bustles at 
the door. \^IIe begins to shep^ Charlotte rouses Mm. 

Clnirlotte. 'Tis come, foul villain! Think you mercy 
will be kind ? Where is the mercy thou did'st show to 
man ? 

Marat. [Starts iq).] What's this ? 'Tis not a dream. 
My senses sleep not. I am full awake. \^IIe tries to find 
out ichat disturbed him ; he sees Charlotte.] Who art 
thou ? Angel, devil, or tormenting ghost ? 

Charlotte. I'm none, yet live for all. I live to work 
out vengeance for dead men ; I live to kill a devil in 
his prime ; I live my work to crown when done — ay, 
e'en the angels shall look down and smile. 

Mnrat. Come, can a woman ever raise a hand 'gainst 
man? 

Charlotte. Ay, so think men till virtue proves she can. 

Marat. Where is thy gentle heart? The tender heart 
of woman, thou canst show no pity? 

Charlotte. Pity ! Monster, how cam'st thou by that 
word ? Beelzebub it was who taught thee. Show me 
his dictionary. Pity is not there. Pity? Look in my 
eye, wretch, read it there. Look in ; behold the 
father and the brother of this g(>rin. They cried to 
thee for pity ; thou had'st none. Know, then, that pity, 
ay, pity, no longer shall implore. Justice is waiting till 
death hath open for thee hell's dark door. 
[Marat shrieks for help ; tries to ^yull the bell-cord. 

Charlotte springs upon him, and loith a dagger 

stabs Marat. 

Charlotte. Too late ! too late ! Die, villain, die ! 

[Uxit. 
Enter Jaques, valet q/* Marat. 

Jaques. Murdered ! Nay, he hath killed himself. His 



2^ 

sufferings, I ween, were too intense. So let him lie. 
\^S2)reads the robe neatly over the body.] I'll search this 
matter, though it cost my running legs till Doomsday. 

Miter Elise. 

Elise. [Shrinking bade at the sight of the corjose.'] 
Dead ! dead ! Can he be dead ? 

Jaques. Ay, even so. Now, by the saints, I mind me 
of a girl, a stranger. What did she with you ? [^The 
truth flashes on Elise, b^it to save herself and Char- 
lotte, she hides her emotion xmder a pretended fear of 
Jaques. 

Elise. [Terrified by Jaques.] Why, Jaques, you 
frighten rae. Have you gone mad? A friend may see 
a friend, that's naught amiss. You saw the girl; she 
came to while an idle hour here. 

Jaques. Nay, she did while no hour with thee, for I 
myself did let her in. Then, won by her sweet face, I, 
for excuse, did sit by thee ten minutes after she liad 
come. Then hastily back to my work returned. What 
was it? A whistle, a knock, did call me? At that 
time she had gone. 

JSlise. Well, what of that? A bird may light and 
wish to linger on a bough ; something may conic afright, 
divert it sooner from its place. E'en so might she have 
for a reason left. 

Jaques. Didst know her reason? 

Elise. Nay. 

Jaques. Dost swear thy nay ? 

JElise. I do. 

Jaques. Then I'll not tarry ; too long have I delayed ; 
the foe has fled. Saints, send me in your aid. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — A street in Paris. Chaelotte led down 



23 

the street by two officers. Adolphe />'owi a side street 
rtishes to her. 

Adolphe. Good saints, what do I see? Charlotte! 
Charlotte ! Can it be Charlotte ? [Charlotte, at the 
sound of his voice, faints ; he runs and stabs one of the 
officers in the back, the officer falls dead. He then fights 
with the other officer and finally kills him also. Char- 
lotte revives and calls for help. 

Charlotte. Help ! help ! good citizens. Help ! help ! 
\^A crowd gather round them, but are afraid to interfere. 
Adolphe stabs the officer and makes his escape xoith 
Charlottk.] \JExeunt?^ \T1ie crowd stand looking at the 
bodies of the officers. An officer comes to see what is the 
cause of the crowd, from his post in a further part of the 
city. 

Officer. What's this ? Corae, wag your tongues ! Are 
ye such cowards that ye daren't speak ? \^A clownish boy 
in the crowd screams. 

Boy. Hold peace in gratefulness, your liver's saved. 
[TVje officer in. a rage tries to break through the croiodto 
get at him y the croiod prevent the officer. 

Officer. Here, you sleek puppy, let me cut your tongue. 
[ The officer then turns to the crowd and says ;] Is this 
the defence to give the Capitol when matters stir up 
wrong? Fie! fie! ye mongrels, ye cross-bred curs of 
France. Have devils tied you dumb? [77ie crowd 
rush upon him and push toward a side street. 

Crowd. Enough ! enough ! Let's collar him ! Let's 
collar him ! [Mceufit. ;j 

[J/en, women and children are seen in the streets. 
Stveral women carrying baskets loith vegetables or fruit. 
Children playing. 

[Enter a man xoith a bill, sticks it to a p>ost. The bill 
reads thus: 500 francs reward. — J^or the arrest of Char- 



21 

LOTTE CoRDAY, murchress of Marat. Sir/ned hij order 
of the Police ,• Headquarters, Rue St. Antoine, Paris. 
August ISth, 1793. 

[A man passing along the street goes up to the sign, 
reads it. 

Man. O liorrid ))icture of a death to come ! And 
yet " I tliaiik thee wlio hast taught my frail mortality to 
know itself; and by those fearful objects to pre])are this 
body like to them, to what I must. For death remem- 
bered should be like a mirror, who tells us life's but 
breaih, to trust it, error." I trust my death will never 
come by such a road. \IIe shicers at the thought, and 
goes on his vHiy ; he looks so miserable a good-hearted 
f Sherman has pitg on him. 

lHsher)nan. How now, how^ now, is it " Black Mon- 
day" with thee ? 

Man. No, blacker than all days, I never saw a gold 
day yet. 

Fisherinan. Hast ever been at sea ? 

Man. When a boy, methinks I once was there. 

Fisherman. " Canst thou catch any fishes tlien ?" 

Man, " I never practised it." 

Ftsherman. " Nay, then thou w' ilt starve sure ; for 
here's nothing to be got nowadays, unless thou fish 
for 't." 

31<(n. "What I have been, I have forgot to know; 
but what I am, want teaches me to think on. A man 
throng'd up with cold-; my veins are chill, and have no 
more of life than may suffice to give my tongue the heat 
to ask your help, which if you shall refuse, when I am 
dead, for what I am a man, pray see me buried." 

Fisherman. "Die, quoth a? Now gods forbid! I 
have a gown here ; come, put it on, keep thee warm. 
Now, afore me a handsome fellowM Come, thou shait 



35 

go liome, and we'll have flesh for holidays, 'fish for fast- 
ing days, and, moreo'er, puddings and flapjacks ; and 
thon shalt be welcome." 

3Ian. I thank yon, sir. "Thanks, Fortune, yet after 
all my crosses, thou givest me somewhat to repair my- 
self. Where with it, I may appear a gentleman." V\\ 
go find a trade. "And if that my low fortune's belter, 
I'll pay your bounties ; till then rest your debtor." 

\^They shake hands. JExeurd. 

Enter " Dr. Caius," goes up to a booth lohere fruits^ etc., 
are spread. 

" Cams.'''' [ Calls.'] Simon Chenier. 

Simon. " Sir." [Simon appears.'] 

" Caius.'" " Yat is de clock," Sim ? 

Simon. " 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Monsieur Duval 
promised to meet." 

" Cains.'''' " By gar ! he has saved his soul, dat he is 
no come ;" vie is it dat he is no come ? " By gar !" 
Chenier, "he is dead already if he be come." 

Simon. "He is Avise, sir; he knew your" honor 
" would kill him if he came." 

" Caius.'''' " By gar ! de herring is no dead so as I 
vill kill him. Take your rapier," Sim, " I vill tell you 
how I vill kill him." 

Simon. " Alas, sir, I cannot fence." 

" Cuius.'''' " Yillany, take your rapier." 

Simon. " Forbear, here's company," you'd best save 
yourself. Monsieur " ]Mock-water." 

" Caius."" " Mock-vat er ! vat is dat?" 

Simon. " Mock-water" means "valor bully." 

^^ Cains.''' "By gar!" den "I have as much mock- 
water as de Englishman," de Irishman or de Frengeman, 
who comes. — " Scurvy jack-dog, priest, by gar ! me vill 
cut his ears." 



26 

Simon. You'd best be off, he may " clapper-claw" 
thee. 

*' Ccdus.^' " Clapper de claw !" vat is dat? 

Simon. " That is, he will make thee amends." 

" Caius." " By gar ! me do look he shall clapper de 
claw me, for, by gar ! me vill have it." 

Simon. Then I'll provoke him to 't or let him wag." 

" Caiusy "Me tank you for dat." 

Simon. Look yonder, here he comes. 

" Cains.'''' YFriyhiened.^ By gar ! den me vill go ; by 
gar ! good day, Simon. \^JRuns.\ By gar ! me vill go. 

\^Exeimt. 

Simon. [Lmighs.'\ Ila, ha, ha, ha. By gar ! by gar ! 
Come back, come back. Ha, ha, ha, ha. There's no- 
body, come back. [Laughs again.] By gar ! by gar ! 
by Jupiter ! he's gone. [Simoji. sits doion hy the booth 
andJjMs his pipe. 

[Enter a man in the street., he finds a. small bundle 
xchich is a crushed letter.'] 

Man. IIo, ho ! What's this treasure floating in the 
dust ? No diamonds, pearls or rubies. [Laughs.] Ila, 
ha, ha, ha, I'll warrant 'tis some lover's jewel, though. 
A bit of poetry. Tut, tut. Sentimentality. Ha, ha, 
ha, ha, of course. A piece about the heart. Ila, ha, ha, 
ha. What could dig closer to the heart? [He reads 
the verses.] 

THE HEART. 

How oft it flutters like a bird, 

All tremblin<x with delifjlit ; 
How oft the drops from falling tears 
Have left a bow at nijjlit ; — 
A bow, whose red, whose blue, whose green. 
Too hidden were, thoutfli, to be seen. 



27 

O, could each draw the misty veil 

Tliat wraps another's heart, 
How much of joy, liow much of pain 

Would linjrer or depart. 

How much of love we thourrlit was ours 

We'd find a tieasure flown ; 
Then tears and sijrhs no more need ask 

Why turned that heart to stone. 

'Tis some Ophelia wrote this for her Hamlet. I'll be 
pale Hamlet, till Hamlet comes for it. [A hand of sol- 
diers pass doion the street, he runs loith the croxod after ^Y.] 

Scene IV. — Charlotte m a woodhy a cave, a nold witch 
beside her. 

Charlotte. " O, where is" Adolphe, " saw you him to- 
day ?" 

Witch. " Madame, an hour before the worshipp'd sun 
peered forth the golden window of the east, a troubled 
mind drave me to walk abroad. Where, underneath the 
grove of sycamore, that westward rooteth from the city's 
side — so early walking — did I see your " love." Towards 
him I made ; but he was 'ware of me, " although he knew 
me not." And stole into the covert of tlie wood. I 
measuring his '' feelings" by my own — that most are 
busied when they are most alone — pursued my humor, 
not pursuing his, and gladly shunned who gladly fled 
from me." 

Charlotte. [Sighs.'\ "Ah, me, sad hours seem long." 
0, would I had sent Avord by thee. 

Witch. " Hie to your" cave, " I'll find" Adolph " to 
comfort you." 

Charlotte. O, bid him come, yet grieve him not with 
how I pined for him. Go, good witch, go. 

Witch. Ay, ay, I'll go, if he be in the wood, I'm sure 
to find him ; so farewell lady, till I fetch thy Love. 



23 

Charlotte. Farewell, farewell, until thou bring hira 
here. "Is thei-e no pity sil'ing in the clouds, that sees 
into the bottom of my grief? 0, fortune, fortune ! all 
men call thee lickle, Avhat dosL thou with him that is 
renowned for faith ? Be lickle, fortune ; for then, I hope 
thou wilt not keep him long, but send him." [iSV/e (/oes 
in the cave. 

Enter Adolphe, icitJi a fjun, loearing a game-bag at his 
side., filled loith birds. 
Adolphe. Her spies, like thirsty blood-hounds, track 
the ground. Tlieir " murderous shaft that's shot, hath 
not yet lighted. \^IIe looks toward the cave 'where Char- 
lotte is secreted.] And now our safest way is to avoid 
the aim." O, curse them. " A plague upon them ! 
"Wherefore should I curse? Would curses kill, as doth 
the mandrake's groan, I would invent as bitter search- 
ing terms, as curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear, de- 
livered strongly through my fixed teeth, with full as 
many signs of deadly hate, as leaned-faced Envy in her 
loathsome pit." " My tongue should stumble in her 
earnest words ; mine eyes should sparkle, like the beaten 
flint; my hair be fixed on end, as one distract; ay, 
every joint should seem to curse and ban ; and, even 
now, my burdened h.eart would break, should I not 
curse them. Poison be their drink ! Gall, worse than 
gall, the daintiest that they taste ! Their sweetest shade 
a grove of cypress trees ! Their chiefest prospect, mur- 
dering basilisks ! Their softest touch, as smart as lizard 
stings ! Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss ; 
and boding owls make the concert full ! All the foul 
terrors in dark seated hell " — 

[Charlotte comes from the cave, rushes out lohen she 
sees Adolphe, Adolphe rushes to her, 
Charlotte. Adolphe ! Adolphe ! [ Theg embrace.] 



29 

Adolphe. "Foul whisperings are abroad; but let's be 
bold and resolute ; — laugh to scorn. Be lion-mettled, 
proud ; and take no care. Who chafes and frets" is 
ever first to fall. Let's liie us, with best courage, from 
tliis place. Like birds Avho leaA-e tlicir nest, desert this 
cave ; and let who will come in and take his rest. 

\Tkey make a move to depart ; the loitch, coming from 
the cave, calls. 

Witch. Stay, children, stay. Come, Adolphe, lend 
an ear to me. 

[^She hads Adolphe. Charlottk goes back in the cave. 
The Witch leads Adolphe to another old hag, Mother 
" Graymalkix," loho is stirring a mess in a ccmldron^ 
The first loitch departs. "Graymalkin" sings over 
the cauldron. 

" Round about the cauldron go ; 

lu the poisoned entrails throw. 

Toad, that under cold stone, 

Days and nights hast thirty-one. 

Boil thou first i' the charmed pot ; 

Sweltered venom sleeping got, 

Double, double toil and trouble, 

Fire, burn ; and cauldron bubble." , 

\^The hag sees Adolphe. Adolphe shrinks in horror 
from her. 

" Graymalkin.'''' " Good sir, why do you start : and 
seem to fear ?" 

Adolphe. \^Aslde^ " This supernatural soliciting" can 
bring no good. If ill, why should I stay ? It may buy 
curses ; then, why not away ? I'll 'bide no longer. 
Good-day, good witch, good-day. 

\IIe turns to leave. 

" Graymalkin^ Nay stay ; I prithee stay. 

Adolphe. Hast thou a prophecy ? 



30 



" GraymalkinP Ay. A grave and timely warning 
for thee. 

Adolphe. Speak on I pray. 

" Graymalkin.^'' \She draws a chart oracle from 
under a stone.^ Draw near, look on. Mark how the 
needle points. There lies the road that thou did'st 
meditate to fly with Charlotte. [Adolphe starts.'] See 
there the beards, the staves, and hungry knives. 
[Adolphe shudders., the vntch pats Adolphe on the 
shoidder, he kneeling beside her.] Come boy, list to my 
riper wisdom. [»SAe draws from her jiocket a long white 
veil.] Here, take this to thy Charlotte ; forbid her 
more to wander from the cave, save when the white 
moon pales just on the stroke of twelve. Her spies will 
think she is a ghost, and for their lives will turn and 
take to heels. [Adolphe laughs. 

Adolphe. Ha ha, Ha ha. How fine, like gold hid in 
a buried mine has been thy Avit ! 'Twould take three- 
headed foxes to unearth thy plan. 

" Graymalkin.'''' Ay, trust me ; that it would. 

Adoljyhe. There take this coin for thy trouble, and 
here [Ag draws a bird from his game bay] this fatted 
bird to feed thy liver. 

" Graymalkin.'''' I thank you, sir. If trouble comes 
again, remember Graymalkin. 

Adolphe. Ay, that I will. I now must hie me to my 
Charlotte. Good-day, Dame " Graymalkin." 

'-'■ Graymalkin?'' Good-day, kind sir, good-day. 
[Adolphe goes on his loay, the loitch goes back to her 
caiddron, and continues her song. 

" Fillet of a fenny snake 
In the cauldron boil and bake : 
Eye of newt, and toe of Iropr, 
Wool of bat, and tongue of dojr. 
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting. 
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing. 



31 

For a charm to soothe all trouble. 

Bubble, bubble, boil and bubble, 
" Double, double toil and trouble. 
Fire burn, and Cauldron" hiss. 

Scene V. — An openxoood. 3Ii(hiight. Charlotte, ^2^e 
a Ghost, loith the veil entirely covering her loanders 
round the loood. A thunder-storm comes, the rabi loets 
the veil, the charm is broken'; her foes recognize her fea- 
tures and detect her scheme. They arrest her. Li order 
to give the effect desired of the veil wet, the veil that 
hung loose before should be draxo)i tightly over the face 
when the storm begins. 

Enter a Robber. 

Robber. [ Calls.] " What ho ! What ho ! What 
ho !" \_IIe takes out a whistle, and whistles for a signal. 

Miter tioo Robbers. 

1 St. Robber. Come, lets' go search our gold ; 
come, come ; 'twas 'neath yoa rock I buried it. [7%e 
Robbers go toward the rock y when they come there, Char- 
lotte is standing on it.] " Peace ; break thee off." 
Look, — look on, — look there. 

2d. Robber. [Starts.] " It harrows me with fear ;" 
metliinks it is a ghost. 

Zd Robber. " See, it stalks away." [Charlotte 
leaves the rock y comes back to it just as the men are 
about to roll it aioay to find their gold. 

\st Robber. \Looks up, sees Charlotte.] By Jupi- 
ter, look up ; why here it comes again. [Charlotte 
comes nearer. Txoo of the Robbers tremble and run off ^ 
the first Robber slowly retreats fro)n tJie place, and stands 
looking at her.] Met! i inks it is a miser spirit, would bar 
us from our goods. Whatever 'tis, " truly I do fear it ! 
Yet," " what mau dare, I dare ! Approach thou, like the 



32 

ragged Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros, or the 
Hyrean tiger. Take any shape but that, and my firm 
nerves shall never tremble ; or be alive again." " Hence, 
horrible shadow!" [Charlotte disappears. "Unreal 
mockery, hence ! — Why, so ! — being gone, I am a man 
again." \^He rolls back the rock <i)hI takes out the bag of 
gold.'\ Ha ! Ha ! my pretty coins ! I'd wade again 
another frightful sea before I'd lose your golden faces, 
\^He takes the bag of gold, goes on Ms loay.^ Mow, back 
I'll go and join my chicken-Iivered hounds. [^Sbigs.^ 

0, tell me what is like to wealth. 
Like to wealth, like to wealth ; i 

O, tell me what is like to wealth. 
And a — 

[^He starts, Charlotte apjyears again, face to face 
xoith him y hetrembles, drops the bug and runs off. 
Thunder is heard — a heavy thicnder-storm breaks upon 
the scene. 

Charlotte. Alas ! alas ! What shall I do ? Where 
can I go? What shall I do? The very heavens 
war against me. " Are there no stones in heaven, 
but what serve" for plunder ? " O, insupportable. 
O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a 
huge eclipse of sun and moon, and that the affrighted 
globe did yawn at alteration." — What noise is this ? 
"7'he noise was high." Hark! Hark! \^3Ien break 
through the wood, icho are spies on Chaklotte. Char- 
lotte sees the men, she shrieks.] What shall I do ? 
What shall I do ? I am unarmed, defenceless ; my veil 
no longer can protect. The cruel, heavy rain hath 
crushed my shield. Once more I'm in my natural help- 
less state, a bleeding deer, that's hunted by the foe 
l^She runs vnldly, shrieking, the men running upon her 
tracks ; they lead her off', captive. 



33 

Enter Adolphe, he sees Charlotte's veil on the ground ^ 
picks it up. 

Adolphe. Black ministers of night, what do I see ! 
Her veil? Where's Charlotte? Had she life, she'd 
wear it. Have wolves devoured ? Nay, 'tis August. 
No wolves devour in summer time. [Ife sees the hag of 
gold on the ground.] Alack, alack, it is some other 
wolves ; see there the bulbous remnant of their tracks. 
O Charlotte ! Charlotte ! Perhaps this hideous bundle 
will betray, [he picks up the bag] will give some scent 
to lead me on their way. [He opens it.] Gold, yellow 
gold. How came they to have held with such a girlish 
grasp ? How dear had gold been once to me and mine. 
Did ever man breathe yet, who smiled not at its hue ? 
Yet, bright and precious as sweet gold it is, I'd rather 
cut my soul from out its seat, than touch one coin from 
such guilty hands. [He throius down the bag.] Away, 
away ! Like as the ocean vomits up its pearls, so to the 
earth I fling their cursed ure ! 

Scene VI. — Charlotte in prison, sitting on a loio stool, 
wiping her tears. 

Charlotte. They say that trials sanctify the mind ; or 
else so sour it it turns to wrong. The tender deer that 
loves to lick the hand, may on the morrow face the 
hand and butt. Ay, that is bitter ; but not worst of 
all. 'Tis not the ghostly fire of despair. [As she raises 
her hand to her brow a stray lock goes ivith it. She sees 
her hair has turned lohite y she shrieks.] My hair white ! 
turned in a night ! 

Enter Adolphe, rushing to her. 

Adolphe. My Charlotte ! [Blank toith wonder, he 
holds her be/ore him.] 

Charlotte. Do you not know me ? [Adolphe bov^s 
his- head, and iceejys.] 



34 

Charlotte. Nay, do not grieve. Oh ! far, far better 
to be born, born cursed now ; now wear the crown ; 
now drag the heavy cross ; now be cut up ; now stoned; 
than to be nursed on fatted meats, drink wines, die on 
a rosy bed ; then wake like baited worms to writhe for 

Adolphe. "O woe!" O woful, woful day! Most 
lamentable day, most woful day. That ever, ever I 
did yet behold ! O day ! O day! O day ! O hate- 
ful day ! Never was seen so black a day as this ; O 
woful, O woful day !" 

Charlotte. \She turns to him ; they embrace.^ Adolphe ! 
Adolphe ! [^.He rushes from her, and runs to a cornier 
where he sees a bottle. The bottle contains a deadly mix- 
ture ; he goes bach to her ; he tries to open the bottle.'\ 

Adolphe. See, Charlotte, see. Without despair, I 
never had contrived ; 'tis only saints and fools wlien 
barriers intervene, submissively will yield, put on the 
yoke, then hive. [^ee»iircirces Charlotte.] Dear, dear 
Charlotte, thy death I cannot stay, but can be chooser 
of the instrument. 

Charlotte. O Adolphe ! Adolphe ! [Adolphe sud 
denly starts and runs to the n^indoio.^ 

Adolphe. What's the hour? 'Tis five; the gates of 
Day just creaking 'ere they spring. Oh ! would I had 
the strength to roll back time, or mighty finger to hold 
still ihisl hour. — This bitter, bitter houi-, yet honeyed 
golden one beside to come. [ Goes back toicard Char- 
lotte, /?/i(?s her sitting, xoeeping. He has in his hand 
a handkerchief, with some of the deadly mixture 
froin the bottle he found poured upon it. Pours jnore 
on it as he ctdvances. He intends to let Charlotte have 
an easy death and escape the block. He makes ■'several 
efforts to kill her, finally holds it to her till shefalls.'\ 

Adolphe. [He goes toioard Charlotte with the hand- 



35 

kerchief in his haml. She does not see him as her face 
is buried in her hands vhile she is ireeping.] O, not all 
the curling, biting flames of licU ; the long eternity 
without an end ; Unscabbered swords, or fearful, hor- 
rid sights ; — could buy such torture as to take her life. 
Oh, how' my strength grows weak, my senses numb. 
Before I blow that light, th*4spirit shall h.iAe flown. 
Are there no angels, or vile spirits of the air, in mercy, 
for one moment, tan look down ? Look down, just 
spare one inch of passing Time, to let a sword or mighty 
cutlass fall to seal our deaths, and let Death crown it 
all? But time doth fly, and words cry out in vain. So 
then, yes then, so let her death come quick ; ay, quick 
before she rise. 'Tis merciful, most merciful as so ! 
No minutes now. Come hands nnd do your work. In 
killing, ye btit prove unfathomable love. [He rushes to 
Charlotte, holds the handkerchief firmly to her face. 
She sinks hack apparently lifeless in his arms. He lays 
her gently on the floor. He looks at her.J "Alack the 
day ; she's dead, she's dead. Ha ! let me see her. [He 
feels her hands.] Out alas ! she's cold ; her blood is 
settled, and her joints are stiflf. Life and these lips" are 
"separated." Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
upon the sweetest flower of the field. O lamentable 
day ! O woeful time ! O me, O me ! — " My love, my 
only life, revive, look up, or I will die with thee." 'Tis 
done ! 'tis done ! No more to be undone. 0, Charlotte, 
Charlotte, Charlotte. [He sinks iceejjiny beside her.] 

CURTAIN FALLS. 



36 



ACT VI. 

Tl^e curtdin rises upon the same scene. Adolphe does 
not appear y he is so heart broken, he cannot come among 
the villagers loho appear on the scene to mour.i over 
Charlotte, ichom they think dead. Several maidens, 
icith flowers, come. One of the villagers takes up the 
body q/" Charlotte /5'0?/« the floor and lays it on a cot in 
thejyrison ; the maidens strew the flowers over her, xohile 
the villagers, with instruments, play a low requiem. One 
of the maidens sings a dirge. 

DIRGE. 

" Fear no more the heat of the sun, 
Nor the winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy waores. 

Chorus. — Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

" Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

Chorus. — The sceptre, learning physic must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

" Fear no more the lightning flash ; 
Nor the all dreaded thunder tone ; 
Fear not slander, censure rash: 
Thou hast finished joy and moan. 

Chorus. — All lovers young, all lovers must, 
Consign to thee and come to dust." 

Scene II. [Charlotte, between the first and second 
scene, has revived, the poison not having killed her, but 
merely having put her in an insensible state. Char- 



37 

1.0TTE ccp2}ears, dressed in tohlte, led by Adolphe. 71ie 
priest in front of them, villagers and a croiod folloxo- 
ing behind. They march to the block, xohich is on an 
open square, lohere the Executioner is loaiting. A few 
Soldiers are s'ationed to j^revenl a riot. 

Adolphe. [JSinbirmes Charlotte, leads her towards the 
block, pauses, and says] To pay the penalty for right 
can bring no pain [the crowd cheer him, a soldier j^oints 
a rife at him / the leader of the soldiers prevents him 
from firing.] Shine out, fair sun ! Where are your 
smiles ? Charlotte goes but to sleep ; among first wait- 
ers to awake again ! [He embraces Charlotte, after 
xchich she loaves a farewell to the Villagers. Adolphe 
faMs fainting?^ 

CURTAIN FALLS. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

CHARLES, DAUPHIN, KING OF FRANCE. 

REIGNIER, DUKE OF ANJOTJ. 

THE DUKE OF ALENQOX. 

THE BASTARD OF ORLEANS. 

THE GHOST OF JOAN OF ARC'S MOTHER. 

JOAN OF ARC, a Shepherdess of the Village of 
Domremi,"'on the border of the Meuse. 

THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 

EARL TALBOT. 

THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY. 

THE DUKE OF YORK. 

French Soldiers, English Soldiers, etc. 



At the time of these battles, Henry the Sixth is on the throne o 
England. 



HEROINES OF FRANCE. 

PART II. 

JOAN OF ARC. 



ACT VII 



Scene l.—An open toood, a small chapel in it. Joan 
OF Arc asleep under a tree opposite the chapel. The 
ghost of Jo A:ii^& mother appears in the chapel. Joan, 
waking up., sees it. 

Joan. [ JVaking up, looks toioard the chapel, and ad- 
vances tovmrd it?\ Wliat's that ? What's that ? Some 
wretched spirit broken from its grave. See how it 
beckons. I've done harm to none, why should it call ? 
\She goes nearer, shrieks.] My Mother ! 'Tis my 
mother ! [She grows calmer, and looks at her.] 

The Ghost of Jof Hi's Mother. Joan! Mydanghter! 

Joan. O gracious mollier, thou knowest how I love 
thee. SjDare me, mother, and leave me yet ray life. I 
love the world ; I love my life ; though I have moui-ned 
for thee, my raining tears have laved me mornings, 
nights, for weeks, for months in sorrow, for thee; but, 
oh ! I cannot come. Mother, oh spare ine yet ; my gen- 



42 

tie mother, come not as the fearful herald of my death 
[She shrieks.^ I cannot die ! I will not, will not die I 

The Ghost of Jowl's Mother. Fear not, Joan, 'tis thy 
life I bring. Thou art a virgin that was formed by 
heaven to be a woman captain — a leader among men. 
France dies without thee. So buckle on an armor, take 
a sword ; bid Domremi farewell ; hie to the king, tell 
him what thou hast seen, and trust me, Joan, he shall 
let thee go. 

Joan. Ay, ghostly mother, I shall go. France, 
bleeding France, is calling; I'll away; nor shall this 
small arm rest till it halh felled each foe ! \The Ghost 
q/" Joan's mother vcmishes. Joan hies to the king.] 

Scene II. — The Village of Domremi. When the cur- 
tain rises, a troop of soldiers in a fie on each side of 
the stage are plaging the " Marseillaise.^^ Joan en- 
ters, dressed in a steel armor, like a man, icith a short 
ichite tunic, with a blue sash belt ; she is mounted on a 
steed, richly harnessed. 

Enter the Bastard of " Orleans.'''' 
Bastard of Orleans. " Where's the Prince Dauphin, I 
have news for him." 

King Charles. " Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome 
to us." 

Bast. " Methinks your looks are sad ; your cheer 
appalled. Hath the late overthrow wrought this of- 
fence ? Be not dismayed, for succor is at hand : A 
holy maid hither with me I bring. Which, by a vision 
sent to her from heaven, ordained is to raise this tedious 
siege, and drive the English forth the bounds of France. 
The spirit of deep prophecy she hath. Exceeding the 
nine sibyls of old Rome ; what's past, and is to come, 
she can descry. Speak, shall I ' bring ' her in ? Believe 
my words, for they are certain and infallible." 



43 

JS^ing Chca-les. '^ Go caW hev in. \^Exlt Bastard.\ But 
first to try her sl<ill. Reignier, stand tliou as Dauphin 
in my place. Question her jsroudly ; let thy looks be 
stern: — By this means we shall sound what skill she 
hath." [Retires. 

Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, leading the steed on 
ichich Joan is tnoicnted [aflourisJi of trumpets), Joan 
springs from her saddle. 

Reignier. "Fair maid, is't thou wilt do these won- 
drous feats ?" 

Joan. " Reignier, is't thou that thinkest to beguile 
me ? Where is the Dauphin ? — Come, come from be- 
hind ; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be 
not amazed, there's nothing hid from me. In private 
will I talk to thee ajjart: — Stand back, you lords, and 
give as leave awhile." 

Reignier. " She takes upon her bravely at first dash." 

Joan. " Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daugh- 
ter ; my wit untrained in any kind of art. Heaven and 
my gracious ' mother ' hath it pleased to shine on my 
contemptible estate. Lo, as] I ' slept beneath an oak,' 
and ' from' sun's parching heat my cheeks withdrew, my 
' mother' deigned to appear to me, and in a vision full 
of majesty willed me to leave my base vocation and 
free my country from calamity. In complete glory she 
revealed herself ; and whereas I was black and swart be- 
fore, with those clear rays which she infused on me, that 
beauty am I blessed with which yoii see. Ask me what 
question thou canst possible, and I will answer unpre- 
meditated. My courage try in combat, if thou dar'st, 
and thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on 
this, thou shalt be fortunate if thou receive me for thy 
warlike mate." 

King Charles. " Thou hast astonished me with thy 



44 



high terms. Only this proof I'll of thy valor make. 
In single combat thou shalt buckle with me, and if thou 
vanquishes, thy words are true ; otherwise I renounce 
all confidence." 

Joan. " I am prepared ; here is my keen-edged sword, 
decked with fi.\e floirer-de-luces on each side; the which 
at Tourraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard, out of a 
great deal of old iron, I chose forth." 

Kinrj Charles. " Then come ; ' come on ;' I fear no 
woman." 

Joan. " And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man." 
[Theyjifjhf, and Sox's overcomes.) 

King Charles. " Stay, stay thy hands, thou art an 
Amazon, and fightest w^ith the sword of Deborah." 

Joan. " My ' mother' helps me, else I were too weak.' 

King Charles. " Whoe'er (helps thee 'tis thou that 
must help me. Impatiently I burn with thy desire. 
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued. Excel- 
lent JoAX, if thy name be so, let me thy servant not thy 
sovereign be. T'is the French Dauphin sueth to thee 
thus." 

Joan. " I must not yield to any rites of love, for my 
profession's sacred from above. When I have chased all 
thy foes from hence, then will I think upon a recom- 
pense." 

King Charles. " Meantime look gracious on my pros- 
trate thrall." 

Meignier. " My lord, methinks, is very long in talk." 

Alen(jon. " Doubtless he shrives this woman to her 
smock, else ne'er could he so long protract his speech." 

Reignier. " Shall we disturb hira, since he keeps no 
mean ?" 

Alen^on. " lie may mean more than we poor men do 
know : these women are shrewd tempters Avith their 
tongues." 



45 

Meignier. " My lord, where are 'you ? What devise 
you on ? Shall we give Orleans, or no ?" 

Joan. " Why, no ! distrustful recreants ! Fight 
till the last gasp. I will be your guard." 

King Charles. " What she says I will confirm ; Ave'll 
fight it out." 

Joan. " Assigned am I to be the English scourge. 
This night the siege assuredly I'll raise. Expect Saint 
Martin's summer halcyon days, since I have entered in 
these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water which 
never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till by broad spreading 
it expand to naught. With Henry's death, the English 
circle ends ; dispersed are the glories it included. Now 
am I like that proud, insulting ship which Caesar and 
his fortune bare at once." 

King Charles. " Was Mahomet inspired with a dove ? 
Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the 
mother of great Constantine, nor yet Saint Philip's 
daughters, were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall'n 
down on the earth. How may I reverently worship 
thee enough ?" 

Alenpon. " Leave off delays, and let us raise the 
siege." 

-Reignier. " Woman, do what thou canst to save our 
honors ; drive them fi'om Orleans, and be immortal, 
ized." 

King Charles. "Presently we'll try. — Come, let's 
away about it. No proi^het will I trust if she prove 
false." [Kxeunt.) (Joan botes to the King and some 
of his men as they pass out ; then makes a signal ti the 
Bastard of Orleans to help her mount her seed.). 

Joan. Arise ! away ! to kill the vultures floating 
'neath the%^wn of Heaven. Ay, vultures who'ed 
clutch the hearts of mothers, make their children car- 
rion, soil the flags of honor, capture our maids to serve 



46 

as sensual feasts, swallow our gold, then dance to hear 
it ring. Sack all the wealth of P' ranee, then rest on 
bloody seas from toils of war. Awake, arise, arise, ye 
gallant sons of France, and angels prosper Joan till she 
win the day. Away ! away ! (Joax rides off the sol- 
diers follow her.) 

Scene III. — Rouen. Enter 3 oa.^, disguised, and soldiers 
dressed like peasants, loith sacks on their backs. 

Joan. " These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, 
through which our policy must make a breach. Take 
hed, be wary, how you place your words ; talk like the 
vulgar sort of market-men that 'come to gather money 
for their corn. If we have [^entrance (as I hope we 
shall), and that we find the 'slothful watch but weak, 
I'll by a sign give notice to our friends that Cahrles the 
Dauphin may encounter them." 

A Soldier. " Our sacks shall be a means to sack this 
city, and we be lords and rulers over Rouen. Tlierefore 
we will knock." {Knocks.) 

Guard [loithin). " Qui est la ?" 

Joan. " Paisans pauvres, gens de France. Poor 
market-folks, that come to sell their corn." 

Guard. " Enter, go in, the market bell is rung." 
{Opens the gate.) 

Joan. " Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the 
ground." 

[Joan and soldiers enter the city.] 

Enter Charles, King of Ftxtnce / the Bastard of Or- 
leans / the Duke op Alen on : Reignier ; Duke of 
Anjou ; and Forces. 

King Charles. " Saint Denis bless this happy strata- 
gem ! and once again we'll sleep secure in Rouen." 
Bastard. " Here entered Joan and her partisans. 



47 

Now she is there, how will she specify where is the 
best and safest passage in ?" 

Heignier. " By thrusting out a torch from yonder 
tower, which, once discerned, shows that her meaning 
is : no way to that for weakness which she entered." 

Knter Joax, on a battlement^ holding out a torch burn- 
ing. 

Joan. " Behold, this is the happy wedding torch that 
joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, but burning fatal 
to the Taboltites." 

Bastard. " See, noble Charles ! the beacon of our 
friend, the burning torch in yonder turret stands." 

King • Charles. " Now shines it like a comet of 
revenge, a prophet to the fall of all our foes !" 

Heignier. " Defer no time ; delays have dangerous 
ends. Enter, and cry, The Dauphix ! presently, and 
then do execution on the watch." [Theg enter the foion.^ 

ScEXE IV. — Enter from the toion, the Duke of Bed- 
ford, brought in sick on a chair, loith Earl Talbot, 
the Duke of Burgu>'dt, and the English Forces. 
Then enteron the icalls, Joan", Kixg Charles, The 
Bastard, the Duke of Alexcox, Reigxier, and 
others. 

Joan. " Good morrow, gallants ! want ye corn for 
bread ? I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast before 
he'll buy again at such a rate. 'Twas full of darnel, do 
you like the taste ?" 

Bur. " ScofE on, vile fiend, and shameless courtezan. 
I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, and make 
thee curse the harvest of that corn." 

King Charles. " Your grace may perhaps starve be- 
fore that time." ' 



48 

Bed. " Oh let not words, but deeds, revenge this trea- 
son !" 

Joan. " What will you do, good grayheard ? break 
a lance, and run a tilt at death within a chair?" 

Talbot. " Foul fiend of France, and hag of all, despite 
encompassed with thy lustful paramours, becomes it 
thee to taunt his valiant age, and twit with cowardice 
a man half dead ? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you 
again, or else let Talbot perish with his shame." 

Joan. " Are you so hot, sir ? Yet, Joan, hold thy 

peace ; if Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.'' 

\^y'albot and the rest consult together. '\ 

Talbot. " Dare ye come forth and meet us in the 
field ?" 

Joan. " Belike your lordship takes us then for fools 
to try if that our own be ours or no." 

Talbot. " I speak not to that railing Hecate, but unto 
thee, x^lengon, and the rest. Will ye, like soldiers, 
come and fight it out ?" 

Alen on. " Signor, no." 

Talbot. " Signor, hang ! base mu.leteers of France 
like peasant footboys do they keep the walls, and dare 
not take up arms like gentlemen." 

Joan. "Away, captains ; let's get us from the walls, 
for Talbot means no goodness bj^ his looks." Good 
luck to you, my lord ! " We came but to tell you that 
we are here." (Exeunt Joan and the soldiers from the 
vxdls. 

Talbot. " And there we will be, too, ere it be long, or 
else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame. Vow, Bur- 
gundy, by honour of thy house, pricked on by public 
wrongs sustained in France, either to get the tuwn 
again or die. And I, as sure as English Henry lives, 
and as his father here was conqueror, — as sure as in 



49 

this late betrayed town, great Cceur de Lion's heart 
was buried, — so sure I swear to get the town or die." 

\^Exewit. 

Scene Y. — The last battle hetxoeen the French and 
EagUsh. The French defeated. Scene, the town of 
Anglers. 

Enter Joan. 

Joan. " The Regent conquers, and the Frenchmen 
fly. Now, help, ye charming spells, and periapts ; and 
ye choice spirits that admonish me, and give me signs 
of future accidents ! [Thunder.] You speedy helpers, 
that are substitutes under the lordly monarch of the 
North, appear and aid me in my enterprise ! 

Enter Fiends. 

Joan. " This speedy, quick appearance argues proof 
of your accustomed diligence to me. Now, ye familiar 
spirits, that are called out of the powerful regions 
under earth, help me this once that France may get the 
field." \They walk about and speak not?^ " Oh ! hold me 
not with silence over long ! Where I was wont to feed 
you with my blood, I'll lop a member off, and give it 
you in earnest of a further benefit ; so you do conde- 
scend to help me now." \They har.g their heads.] 
" No hope to have redress ? My body shall pay recom- 
pense if you will grant my suit." {They shake their 
heads^ " Cannot my body, nor blood-sacrifice, entreat 
you to your wonted furtherance ? Then take my soul 
my body, soul and all, before that England give the 
French the foil." [2'hey de2)art.'\ "See! now the time 
is come that France must vail her lofty plumed crest, 
and let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient 
incantations are too weak, and hell too strong for me to 
buckle with : now, France, thy glory droopeth to the 
dust." [Exit. 



50 

Alarums. Enter French and English ^fighting, Joan 
and York fighting hand to hand. Joax is taken 
The French fly. 

York. " Damsel of France, I think I h'ave you fast ; 
unchain your spirits now with spelling charms and try 
if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for 
the devil's grace ! See how the ugly witch doth bend 
her brows, as if with Circe she wouldchange my shape." 

Joan. " Changed to a worser shape thou canst not 
be." 

York. " O, Charles, the Dauphin, is the proper man : 
No shape but his can please your dainty eye." 

Joan. " A plaguing mischief light on Charles and 
thee ! and may ye both be suddenly surprised by 
bloody hands in sleeping on your beds !" 

York " Fell, banning hag ! Enchantress, hold thy 
tongue," 

Joan. " I pr'ythee give me leave to curse awhile. 

York. " Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the 
stake." \Ex,eunt. 

Scene VI. — A ^narJcet place in the town of Mouen 
Joan tied to a stake. I'kunes burning around her., h&r 
arms charred, and streaked with blood and gore. At 
intervals she shrieks loith pain, or groans in agony. A 
mob and soldiers of the British forces stand looking at 
her. She p>ronounces a curse upon England and dies. 

Joan. The curse that creeps from out the jaws of 
Death, all heavy curses I now pluck from out my grave. 
Down, down, from that drear cold abyss I fetch those 
venomed stings for England's head. May all the other 
countries that round England lie, rise in one mighty 
army under some pretence, and mar disable her ; turn 
her a hunchback with four dangling limbs, and leave 



51 

her seated thus to raouni her foulsome state. Thus 
seated, to think and weep o'er endless woes ; pine o'er 
her dull captivity ; like some huge monster wasting all 
its days in gnawing for its flight ; gnawing [^back on 
self, same spots to gnaw again ; and with that gnawing 
but to gnaw in vain ; thus with all curses more that any 
can invent, my soulbroaks from its seat. Away ! Away ! 
Shake oflf this dusty mould, France, France,— I'm free, 
— I'm free. [Dies. The soldiers, lohen they see Joan is 
dead, lyropose a " Wake.''^ The Moh drink wine, [and 
break bottles, a general confusion takes place. The sol- 
diers join hands and dance rox<nd the body o/" Joan sing- 
ing a song.^ 

Leader of the soldiers. Come, let's join hands and 
have a song, and all who're in the limits of a mile hie 
to the " Wake." [77ie soldiers dance and sing. \ 

Hi, ho, the Avitch is dead, the witch is dead ; 

The witch is dead, hi, ho. 
The witch is dead, hi, ho, hi, ho, hi, ho. 

Curtain Falls. 

END. 



